


West of my Future

by peet4paint



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe - Earth, Angst, F/M, Genderbending, Humor, Oblivious, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-03
Updated: 2012-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-28 19:14:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/311289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peet4paint/pseuds/peet4paint
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>McKay is a car salesman, and he's damned good at it.  Sheppard is a repairman, and she's damned good at it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	West of my Future

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lilyfarfalla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilyfarfalla/gifts).



> Huge thanks to hoktauri for a super-quick beta.
> 
> To lilyfarfalla for having all the best ideas. Hope you like it despite the genderbanding.

Her hair is curly, so dark it’s almost black. It falls in a tangled wave to mid-back when she wears it down, not that she wears it down, ever. She’s the kind of girl Rodney doesn’t quite have a word for, something that means dependable and steady and playful and certain all rolled into one. And somehow she’s still breathtaking, maybe all the more for it.

She doesn’t wear makeup. At least, she doesn’t wear makeup except when she does. And then it’s only for something important. Some _reason_. Some actual change to her routine. Otherwise, the most she ever wears is the occasional coat of nail-polish. It’s always blue or black or chartreuse or some other ridiculous color and it’s always chipping, pink showing through.

Not that she really seems to care about it, at least not anymore than a hastily muttered “ _Damn_ ” that usually goes unnoticed in the noise of the station.

Rodney shouldn’t know this much about her, he really shouldn’t. She’s a repairman, rather _woman_ , and he’s a salesman. And everyone knows the two worlds shall never meet. But he can’t help watching her, tracking her every move. He can’t help bringing her name into conversations with Ford and Lorne when they’re giving him estimates on cars, listening for every crumb, every clue they might be willing to divulge.

There aren’t many other females in the service station, and the few there don’t seem terribly keen on him, so he tries bribing them however he can. Cadman goes for chocolate, dark chocolate, and movies about hot Scottish doctors. Rodney doesn’t see the appeal, but he’s not about to tell Cadman that. The woman is scarier than everyone there. Including Sheppard.

“Three things, right? She likes snowboarding and football and her convertible,” Cadman says, licking chocolate from her lip like a young child.

“Football. I can do football. It’s rather an intelligent sport, really,” Rodney says.

“American football, Rodney,” Cadman says, mouth twitching at the corners.

Rodney winces. It’s not that American football is a _bad_ sport per se. Except that it is. It really, really is. “Well, I can certainly sit through one game.”

“She likes _playing_ football, Rodney. Face it. You could never keep up with her. And I know for a fact you’re not her type,” Cadman says, suddenly acting like someone with a secret.

“What?” Rodney asks, desperate. “Does she like blonds? I can understand it, of course—what’s not to love. But really, I’m _practically_ blond myself. In fact, I used to _be_ blond.”

“She doesn’t like blonds, Rodney,” Cadman says, laughter breaking through. “What she wants is gonna take more than a little hair dye to fix.”

She slaps Rodney on the back and walks away.

Rodney manages to hold back the wince until Cadman’s back in the station. That girl can _punch._

*

It’s frustrating, knowing there’s something he doesn’t know. It’s frustrating and aggravating and downright unnerving. And it leaves him with a perpetual stammer. And an ulcer.

“Rodney,” Elizabeth says, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Rodney, don’t you think maybe you should cut back on the coffee?”

“No. No I don’t Elizabeth,” Rodney says, clutching the coffee cup tighter to his chest.

“Really, Rodney,” Elizabeth says, prying his fingers free one by one, “you’re scaring the customers.”

Considering the fact that their current ‘customers’ include that welfare case that’s been bothering them for financing for the past month and old Merl who only stops by for the free coffee, Rodney’s fairly certain Elizabeth’s exaggerating. Of course, Merl has to choose that minute to walk all the way to the service bathroom instead of the public one not two feet from where Rodney’s standing, shooting Rodney suspicious looks all the way there.

“All right,” Rodney says, loosening his grip. “All right. I’ll cut back.”

Elizabeth smiles that smile that means she knew she’d get her way in the end and pats Rodney on the shoulder.

Rodney can’t be blamed for sticking out his tongue as soon as her back is turned.

“I saw that, Rodney,” she says as she’s walking away.

Somehow she always does.

*

“You could try talking to her, you know,” Sam says.

Rodney startles from where he’s very stealthily, very sneakily, spying on Sheppard. It’s not his fault he can’t look away. She looks so… And then there’s the grease…

“She won’t bite,” Sam says, looking out at her as well. “At least, not unless you ask nicely.”

Rodney feels a grimace cross his face. It’s not that Sam is _wrong_ precisely. In fact, it’s the opposite. It’s the fact that she’s right that is driving him insane.

As it always does.

Rodney may be the biggest seller at Woolsey and Hammond, but Sam seems to always be right at his heels, ready to take his place at the head of the pack the moment he shows a sign of weakness. Normally he would simply shun her. After all, it had worked with Kavanaugh. Less than a year in, Kavanaugh had been crawling home to his mommy. And Daniel had taken even less time to chase off.

But somehow, she was the type who would turn every opening, no matter how minute, into a friendly conversation. And before Rodney knew what was happening he’d started actually listening to her.

Which is how he ended up here, face pressed to Plexiglas listening while Sam tries to tell him he has a chance with Sheppard. At least, he thinks that’s what she’s saying.

“You’re implying I have a shot with Sheppard?” Rodney says, carefully impartial. Wouldn’t do to let a thread of hope enter the conversation.

Sam’s eyebrow shoots up. “Aren’t you putting the cart a little bit ahead of the horse, McKay?” she says, mirth coloring her voice.

“Pardon me for taking what you said at face value,” Rodney says in a huff.

Sam’s hand is suddenly on his shoulders rubbing slow circles into his spine. “I’m not saying there’s no hope for you, McKay. I’m saying… why not go with friendship first. Friendship never hurt anything.”

Rodney watches Sheppard rub grease across her gray coveralls, black splotches across one knee and both hips. He thinks, _I’ll never find anything to talk to her about._ He says, “No, I don’t suppose it did.”

*

“I—ah—I heard you like football,” Rodney says to Sheppard’s lower torso.

Sheppard is currently under the body of an Audi checking for leaks. After a second, she grunts in response.

It’s not the most promising of responses, but Rodney is nothing if not fearless. (All right, all right, that’s a total lie. Rodney has fear. Rodney is full of fear. But Sheppard is worth it, damn it.)

He clears his throat and goes on. “Not that I—ah—play. Or watch, as such…”

Sheppard grunts again, and this time she sounds aggravated.

“Yes, yes, I know. Football is your—“ Rodney waves his hand looking for an appropriate word; the best he can come up with is—“thing.”

He waits for a second, but there’s no response this time. Sheppard is obviously growing impatient with him.

“But,” Rodney says, getting ready for the big conclusion, “I _would_ be more than happy to _watch_ you play football sometime. What do you think?”

Sheppard wheels out from underneath the car and spends a second wiping her hands down. And then she’s looking up at him and saying, “Rodney. What are you doing here?”

“What?” Rodney says, uncomprehending.

Sheppard reaches up and pulls an ear bud from one ear then from the other. “Something I can help you with, Rodney?”

Rodney thinks a million things. Because yes, yes there is something Sheppard can help him with. And it’s not just in his pants (although it’s there too). Mostly it’s—it’s in his life. His empty life with his empty apartment and empty bed. It would be nice—so nice—to have someone—to have _Sheppard_ —share those with him.

Rodney says, “Nothing. Just nothing.”

*

It’s snowing, pelting down some disgusting mixture of freezing rain and hail, and for some reason, because of that, the lot is absolutely packed with people. “No,” Rodney says to his _tenth_ customer of the day. “No, no, I don’t think this car will make you look fat.”

Rich-woman-whose-name-Rodney-can’t-remember runs a gloved finger over the Hummer she’s currently eyeing, and stares at it, untrustingly. “But it’s yellow. Yellow makes everyone look fat.”

“Well, then, what about the black one,” Rodney says, patience fraying. “It’s quite a lovely model as well with—“

“But yellow is the hot color this season,” rich-woman-whose-name-Rodney-can’t-remember says, _interrupting_ him, and Rodney’s about to count to ten when someone _else_ says his name.

“What, what, _what?_ Can’t you possibly see that I’m busy? Or is that too much for your little pea-sized brain to take in?” Rodney says rounding on—Sheppard. All of Rodney’s breath seems to leave him at once. “Sheppard,” he says weakly. “I—I didn’t—“

“Your report,” Sheppard interjects, eyebrow raised. He takes it and she turns around, legs snapping together in a way that looks trained and heads back inside.

Rich-woman-whose-name-Rodney-can’t-remember sniffs and says, “Some women simply don’t understand their place in the universe.”

Rodney stares at Sheppard’s back—at Sheppard’s very coatless back—and thinks what an imbecile he is.

*

For once it’s not Rodney’s fault. At least, it’s not exactly Rodney’s fault. Yes, admittedly, he generally speaks before thinking things through. But honestly he would never have snapped like that if there was a chance Sheppard was the one who wanted his attention.

And really there wasn’t. Before today, Rodney had never seen Sheppard do a vehicle report. But somehow today, not only is she doing them regularly, she also keeps doing them for Rodney’s customers.

It’s like a very polite, very stilted form of hell.

After eight o’clock rolls around and they’re finally closing up and everyone is finally gone (except for that last minute couple Sam had to field—which Rodney had skillfully avoided by going to the bathroom—for a half hour), Sheppard walks up to him.

“I—ah—I wanted to apologize for my earlier behavior,” Rodney says awkwardly. “It was—very rude of me, and… Well, it won’t happen again.”

Sheppard raises an eyebrow. Then she sort of— _snorts_ is the only way to describe it. “Don’t worry, Rodney. I know you’re a jackass. People do talk, you know.”

Rodney feels his irritation raising. It was probably Cadman. That bitch. “A j—“

“Rodney.” Sheppard stops him midstream, voice coming out like some kind of command. Rodney would be more than happy to obey if only he could just figure out what the command meant. But then Sheppard’s talking again. “That wasn’t what I came over here to talk to you about. I came over here to tell you that you would’ve had a shot with that last one if you actually had a clue what you were talking about.”

Rodney’s chest puffs out with indignation he can’t quite express. “I will have you know I know every possible statistic about every make of vehicle on this lot. And about a good deal many more besides.”

“Exactly,” Sheppard says. “Statistic. You know every possible statistic. But with a guy like that, he doesn’t trust somebody until they get their hands dirty. You ever change brake pads?”

“What? No,” Rodney says, barely able to keep up with the conversation. “I’ve never had the—the pleasure of that particular activity.”

Sheppard tosses him a little paper airplane. Rodney looks at it, bemused, wondering what exactly it means, when he sees writing scrawled across part of a wing. He unfolds it to find an address. Sheppard starts walking away from him, walking backwards of course and talking all the while. “Lucky for you, you’ll get that very great pleasure. Meet me there tomorrow. Nine o’clock sharp.”

“So I’m meeting you tomorrow, on my day off, to learn how to change brake pads?” Rodney asks unsure.

“It’s a date, Rodney,” Sheppard says with a little smirk, finally turning around and walking out the door.

Rodney looks at the little piece of paper then he thinks about Sheppard’s words and he feels his heart kick up to double-time. _A date_.


End file.
